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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25294813">Unsainted</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CazBunny/pseuds/CazBunny'>CazBunny</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Crimson Flower Route, Dimileth's Crimson Flower dynamics keep me awake at night, Dimitri gunning for that Tempest King nickname, F/M, One Shot, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Slighty AU, Spoilers, There's Ashe/Marianne if you squint</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:08:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,785</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25294813</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CazBunny/pseuds/CazBunny</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>As the moons change during his time at the Academy, Dimitri grows maddeningly closer to Byleth and understands her less than he ever thought possible.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Unsainted</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1180</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Great Tree Moon</em>
</p><p>When the Blade Breaker’s companion rushes the bandits, Dimitri’s first thought is of a demon, hollow-chested and bloodthirsty. She cannot be human. Not as she carves through bandit after bandit with only cruel grace dusting her expression.</p><p>When she regroups at his side, offering only a pithy nod as acknowledgment of her carnage, Dimitri’s next thought is of the wolves that stalk the frosted forests of Fhirdiad, of how their legs move like water in the snow. Of how their bites sever all the tough tendons and bones of unfortunate prey in quick flashes of teeth. Of how their pelts always stink of blood and death, even when made into the finest of furs, Of how she is like that. Viscerally beautiful. A predator unlike any he has encountered. A monster of the ilk he fears himself to be. </p><p>But then she saves Edelgard, nearly kills herself in the process. When she saves Edelgard, something in his breaks—some little fledging <em>something </em>plucking at the sinew of his heart. Something like hope.  </p><p>
  <strong>*****</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Harpstring Moon</em>
</p><p>It is not that Dimitri is angry Byleth has chosen another house. In a way, he is relieved. She talks little, but sees too much. Her stare alone seems it could peel away the fleshy veneer of him to reveal the sickly mess that lay beneath.</p><p>Still, he is not free of her presence; it stalks him in the halls and on the tongues of his friends. She is everywhere and has become the talk of the monastery. No one knows what to make of her or of the archbishop’s reverence over her—him least of all.</p><p>
  <strong>*****</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Garland Moon</em>
</p><p>Lady Rhea does not send the Blue Lions to suppress a fire in their own land. Instead, she sends the Black Eagles who return with tales of fog and tempered revolution. Caspar is the worst—boasting loudly of dispatching enemy fighters with the greatest of ease, seemingly unaware that the enemy had been little more than farmers and boys just beginning to grow into their shoulders.</p><p>The whole thing puts Dimitri into a sour mood and sends him out into the forests surrounding the monastery, equipped with a hunting knife and a handful of snares. Dedue accompanies him, doing his best to keep his lumbering footsteps from scattering potential prey.</p><p>When hours have turned into an afternoon among the trees and brush, Dimitri boasts three rabbits, all plucked from carefully laid snares. It is a meager haul, but it sates the grim thing within his chest for the time being.  </p><p>Upon his return to the monastery with Dedue in tow, Dimitri finds the outlying fields littered with hordes of giggling girls. Blooms of delicate white shift and twist in all their hands.</p><p>Before he can even begin to recognize the blur of faces, a group of girls assail him all at once, offering wreaths of white roses, each more intricate than the last, until his brow is heavy from the weight of so many crowns and the rabbits have gone cold across his back.</p><p>Dedue receives none of the same attention, but he seems unbothered, taking the rabbits from Dimitri when their cut throats sully the mass of blooms adorning every possible inch of his lanky frame.</p><p>The worst over, Dimitri trudges for the gates of Garreg Mach, intent on suffering no further delays, until a flashing of green catches his eye.</p><p>Byleth sits with Edelgard and Dorothea, a pathetic attempt at a crown in her hands. The stems are poorly interlinked, jutting at awkward angles, and the petals of each blossom are crumpled. The three stare at him and Dedue as they pass, but only Dorothea offers a half-hearted hello. Edelgard quickly returns her attention to the craft while Byleth stares at him, giving him a once over that could curdle his blood. And yet, Dimitri’s heart thumps, foolishly, at the thought that the frumpy thing might be given to him. But Byleth only turns back to her work with dull-faced disinterest.</p><p>Later, Dimitri hears a rumor that her crown had gone to her father and another that she tossed it into the pond. He doesn’t believe either—he suspects she never bothered to finish it.</p><p>
  <strong>*****</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Blue Sea Moon</em>
</p><p>News filters through the academy quickly once the staff assignments for the month has been posted.  The Sword of the Creator has called to its vessel and Byleth wears it like a great burden over her hip—everyone wants to glean some blessing or knowledge, whichever she is willing to give.</p><p>Dimitri allows Sylvain to drag him by the crook of his elbow to the huddled mass in the cathedral for choir practice because he is just as curious as the rest, even if Byleth’s newfound divinity nestles like a dagger against his heart.  </p><p>She stands before an open missal, staring down at the words inscribed. Her expression is impassive, inscrutable. Dimitri waits, but not as the others wait with bated breath. He merely waits, watches.</p><p>Byleth’s shoulders are stiff. Her chin juts as she stares, stony and still, down at the proclamations of the Goddess’ love. She flips a page in the missal, stares, continues to do nothing. He sees her uncertainty more than he hears it, even when she hisses sideways out of her mouth to Edelgard, standing guard over her shoulder, “What the <em>hell </em>am I supposed to do?”</p><p>And Dimitri smiles, the absurdity of it all bubbling out into the sweep of his lips, as Edelgard scowls and Byleth curses. He watches her sweep a hand through uneven bangs and squint down at the text.</p><p>“Okay,” Byleth says at last, slamming the missal shut. “Who can teach me to read music?”</p><p>There is a beat of silence and then several students pounce on the opportunity: Dorothea, Sylvain, Ferdinand. And Dimitri watches Byleth entertain them all, allowing Dorothea to sprint through an aria and Sylvain to pretend at reading rhythms and Ferdinand to oversimplify easy concepts.</p><p>Slowly, the crowd of students shrinks until only he and a few others, far more devout and studious than he, remain. Byleth has taken a seat on the floor, nodding in mute understanding as Ferdinand explains the proper technique for projecting one’s voice, and Dimitri stares at the casual fold of her legs, one under the other, and how easily Ferdinand leans into her. What must it be like, he wonders, to hold such power as her yet be allowed to mingle and grow alongside everyone else?</p><p>And he is rigid and dry-mouthed, struck not by her ferocity or finesse, but her humanity—her humility.</p><p>
  <strong>*****</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Verdant Moon</em>
</p><p>Miklan has been dealt with, though not by Dimitri’s hand as he should have been. Rhea had sent the Eagles to retrieve the Lance of Ruin. And Sylvain had gone with them and stayed with them. Felix had followed soon after they returned. There are whispers among the others; he fears the Blue Lions will hemorrhage capable members until he remains alone in an empty classroom.</p><p>All the other students have boasted of tea time with the newest addition to the monastery’s staff, but he thinks himself forgotten. Until Byleth corners him with a promise of chamomile and stunted conversation.</p><p>“You are upset,” Byleth says that night at their inaugural tea.</p><p>“Is my smile not passable?”</p><p>“Your eyes,” she says. Then, she forces a smile, all jagged edges and thinned lips. Her eyes remain hollow and hallowed. Her smile drops. She says, “I have the same problem myself.”</p><p>His words unstick more easily after that. They talk of small things to pass the time, weapon maintenance and guard rotations, until they speak of slightly larger things, Felix’s dour behavior and the way Ashe travels after Marianne.</p><p>When he returns to his room that night, the unquiet dead do not visit him. But he does not let himself hope. The future is still uncertain, still not his.</p><p>
  <strong>*****</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Wyvern Moon</em>
</p><p>The Battle of the Eagle and Lion has long since finished. Dimitri sits at the designated table of the Blue Lions, occupied by only himself, Dedue, and Ingrid; the vestiges of a once-great house. The food is warm and Ingrid assures him it is delicious, but there is only the grit of sand to coat his tongue.</p><p>The battle had been hard-fought, even with a handful of intrepid squires to replace his defected peers, but he had lost in the end. Miserably.</p><p>Hanneman tells him he fought valiantly, even Rhea offers him compliments. But none of it matters. If he is not strong enough to best his peers, he can forgo all hope of ever appeasing the moaning dead?</p><p>Even the telltale sway of the crowd around him heralding Byleth’s arrival does little to assuage him his dark mood.</p><p>“You fought brilliantly,” she says, taking a seat beside him without asking. “I have never seen anyone with such raw power.”</p><p>“A benefit of my crest,” he says, lamely. His food sits heavy in his stomach.</p><p>“You belittle your potential,” she says. She leans forward. Her knee buoys against his, but his greaves fend off her warmth. She smells of breezes through snow-covered boughs and the smoke of a fire in the dead of night. His thoughts buzz. He is not one for foolish fancy, but he is still able to be entertained and even delighted by the slight surprises her presence always brings. , by the possibility of it all.  </p><p>Her gaze looses a shiver along the sour slump of his spine when she says, “Join me.”</p><p>Concerns of failure and inability, drown beneath a wave of boyish excitement and thrill. He dares not consider the implications, but they dance in the blurring edges of his thoughts regardless. The tang of sweat. The loosing of breath. The hesitant touches of inexperienced want.</p><p>She is close. So close. He could breathe the air straight from her lungs. He is dizzy. Near delirious. Her edges blur with mingled softness and strength. If he inched closer, would she let him? Is that what she wants?</p><p>“The house,” she says. “The Black Eagles.”</p><p>His good mood shatters. He laughs a bark of a laugh and it is answer enough. Byleth doesn’t leave, but every inkling of warmth leaves her face. She seems sad somehow, if she is even capable of sadness.</p><p>Dimitri doesn’t chase after her reasoning in tempting him to abandon the pride of his country and she does not broach the subject again. For the rest of the feast, she sits at his side, haunting his thoughts with blasphemous what-ifs and the phantom press of her knee against his.</p><p>
  <strong>*****</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Red Wolf Moon</em>
</p><p>The Blue Lions are not sent to Remire, but Dimitri hears of the devastation quickly enough. The bodies. The putrid stench. The shrouded enemy, crawling like a rat amongst them and calling himself Thomas. The mania that alit the crowd like a flame to black powder. And the Ashen Demon, carving her name and her legacy into the very heart of the chaos itself.</p><p>
  <strong>*****</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Ethereal Moon</em>
</p><p>Dimitri finds her in the cemetery, standing guard over gloomy headstones while dew dusts the grass at her feet. An open grave lies before her, a precise square wound on the face of the earth.</p><p>He hadn’t been there, but he had heard. Everyone had heard. The Blade Breaker assassinated and the Ashen Demon weeping overtop of him.</p><p>Jeralt’s funeral had been that morning with the archbishop herself reading his funeral rites. The whole monastery attended, not for Jeralt, who had been little better than a hard-ass and a bully to them while he’d breathed, but for Byleth. Yet, none had approached her—giving her as wide a berth as possible to grieve and to heal. As far as he knows, Dimitri is the first to approach her so brazenly all day. He says, “Edelgard searches for you.”</p><p>“She is very driven,” Byleth says. She gives a quiver of her lip, something that may have been the ghost of a smile in different circumstances, and a feeling like lightning sparks in his chest.</p><p>They have been spending more time together, talking more, sparring more. And still, he wants more. Even now, he wants more.</p><p>He had entertained thoughts of asking her to dance the night of the ball—a childish fantasy fueled by all the gooey romances Annette babbled about at mealtime, but he had lost his nerve, especially after Byleth had exited the festivities early with Edelgard close behind. At the time, he had devastated at his own cowardice. Now, he is thankful for it. A foolish advance that night would have made it impossible to comfort her in the present.</p><p>“Your father was a good man,” Dimitri says. “His memory will be well kept alive through you.”</p><p>For a long while, Byleth says nothing and Dimitri resolves to leave her to grieve. Then, she says, “I find no comfort in carrying that burden.”</p><p>“Few do,” he says and it immediately seems too much, too honest, but Byleth offers a grim smile. Dimitri stays a moment longer, wanting to explore this sudden breath of brutal honesty between them. But leaving is safe, familiar. So, he leaves.</p><p>He does his best not to dwell.</p><p>
  <strong>*****</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>1181</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Guardian Moon</em>
</p><p>Her hair is lighter and her expressions darker, but she is still her—still Byleth. When she seeks him out, fresh from the infirmary and from stories of cutting the sky in half, Dimitri doesn’t know what to think, especially when she takes him to the tea patio beneath the quickly setting sun and asks, “Tell me, when you sleep, do you dream of the future?”</p><p>He shakes his head. He only dreams of the past. Of headless fathers and gutted friends.</p><p>“I have dreamt of the future. Bloody battles and deadly conflict and the continent torn apart. But also, of great happiness, a brighter tomorrow. You.”</p><p>She does not elaborate. He cannot ask her to. If there is some deeper meaning to her words, he cannot find them. Their conversations have never been mired in slippery words as his conversations so often are with so many others.</p><p>“There is much that Edelgard keeps hidden, much that haunts her. The past has taken its toll on her, just as Duscur took its toll on you.”</p><p>He has not spoken of Duscur to anyone, but especially not her. Still, it doesn’t surprise him—everyone knows of Duscur and of his involvement. A question sits on the cliff of his tongue, an inquiry into Edelgard’s wellbeing, but it goes unsaid when, beside the wilting tea cakes and untouched scones, Byleth takes his hand, forces him to take hold of hers. Though his gloves leave it all to his imagination, he thinks her touch is warm and her skin soft. She holds his hand there, squeezing tight, while he flounders for meaning.</p><p>She is delusional, clearly still stricken from whatever she has encountered only hours earlier, and still, he would do anything she asked of him, even in this half-crazed state. It is a stupid, silly thing, how little he knows her yet how much he cares for her. He is a foolish boy, surely destined to become an even more foolish man.</p><p>“Come to Fhirdiad,” he says. He squeezes her hand in his, swallowing the slender slip of her fingers into the heft of his much larger palm. “After the semester ends. I will find you work in the knights or an advisory role. Whatever you desire.”</p><p>For a moment, he feels the whisper of something, some soft sweetness aborted before it was ever given the chance to bloom. It stirs memories of a kiss given by a sandy-haired stable hand and the burbling in his chest when he’d offered Edelgard a dagger as a child. But, whatever it is or was, doesn’t materialize. There is only Byleth’s discerning gaze and her hand leaving his, disappearing beneath the table.  Without it, his own is numb.</p><p>“I need to see this through,” she says.</p><p>She leaves soon after, but his heart isn’t broken.</p><p>Not yet.</p><p>*****</p><p>
  <em>Lone Moon</em>
</p><p>Dimitri does not sleep the night before Edelgard’s army marches on Garreg Mach nor does he eat. He does not think of poisoned affections or the ache of betrayed trust. Such things are a waste of effort, his father says. They do little but distract from the bloody business ahead, Glenn says. And Dimitri does not drown out their voices as he once had. The ghosts of Duscur are always with him, he knows that without doubt now. He no longer attempts to drown them out with the chatter of his peers or feeble strikes of his fists against his temples. When they speak to him, he listens.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Uh hi. I have been working on this for an embarrassingly long time and finally worked it into a spot I was satisfied with. This work was inspired by a conversation I had with @theazarelus over on Twitter. They asked for some pining academy Dimitri and my response was to make it as angsty as possible. Tis the burden I bear.<br/>I'm just obsessed with the idea of Dimileth in a crimson flower route. Like. Good God. The Drama. The Tension. The Tragedy. It's the kind of story Shakespeare wanted to write but only came as close as like Romeo and Juliet. This is my feeble attempt at setting the scene for this tempestuous romance that I spend long car rides daydreaming about to the angsty tunes of pop punk i never grew out of. Anyway.<br/>This is my first T rated fic that'll actually stay T rated?? Wild.<br/>Also, I thought up the name for this in a tizzy of creative wonderment only to take to Google and learn that it's the name of a Slipknot song. Oh well, it still slaps ;-;<br/>I hope y'all enjoy!  Feel free to leave a comment and know what ya think! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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